Chapter 35
Patrick
If people would only look to the cookie,
all our problems would be solved.
~ Jerry Seinfeld
I left Daisy a box of cookies on her porch yesterday.
A box of cookies.
As if that says, “Sorry I played a part in you not going to your dream college, and in losing the shop you inherited from your grandma, and also inadvertently agreed to my family building condos on your property.” A lifetime’s supply of cookies wouldn’t begin to make up for her losses.
I didn’t even know what to do when she emailed me as the host and then wanted to DM. I’m so gone for her, I responded. And then, maybe selfishly, I suggested she go easy on her neighbor—aka, me.
I wasn’t kidding about winning her over. And this part isn’t selfish. If she never speaks to me, I’ll understand. I won’t like it, but I dug my own grave on this one.
So, when I clock out and climb into my car after a long twenty-four-hour shift, the first stop I make is to my childhood home, also fondly referred to as “the mansion,” in my family. The house is behind the gates, on a large parcel, in the same neighborhood as Blaire’s family.
My car looks out of place in the driveway next to Dad’s Mercedes and Mom’s Bentley.
I walk up the stone steps to the double-tall doors.
The size of this house has always overwhelmed me, even though it was my childhood home—even when I lived here before moving into the duplex.
It suits my parents. They love opulence and making a statement.
I ring the doorbell and my mother answers, wearing a lavender coordinated yoga outfit.
“Patrick! What a pleasant surprise.”
I lean in and kiss Mom’s cheek. “I’m here to speak with Dad.”
“Well, come on in. Jillian’s here for my personal training session. We’ll be making protein shakes in a little while. Maybe you can join me.”
“I’d like that,” I smile at Mom.
“Your father is in the downstairs office, wheeling and dealing, as one does.”
“As one does,” I echo.
“He’s been so thrilled about your involvement in the local Home Mart expansion. He may not tell you, but it’s all he talks about when he’s not busy with work.”
I smile, grateful to have his praise, but certain it won’t last another hour. Not after he hears what I came to say.
“Have a good workout, Mom,” I say, squeezing her arm lightly.
She smiles up at me.
I walk through the foyer, my footfalls echoing off marble and tall ceilings. In his office, Dad sits behind the solid wood desk, phone pressed to his ear, laptop open. The click-click of his pen punctuates the end of his call.
He looks up, smiles broadly and waves me in.
I almost falter at the sight of him welcoming me as if I’ve never disappointed him, as if who I am matters more than what I do.
I’m proud to be a firefighter, possibly prouder that I built a successful podcast celebrating my love of reading. It’s unfortunate that I can’t share the joy of those two accomplishments with the man sitting across the desk from me.
“Patrick,” he booms when he hangs up his call. “So good to see you here.”
“Thanks. I’ll get right to it.”
Dad sits back in his high-back leather office chair, his hands folded on the desktop in front of him.
“I need to tell you some things. I should’ve said them a lot sooner.”
His brow creases just the slightest, the way it does anytime he senses he’s losing control over the room.
“I’m not on board with the development.”
I allow the bomb to tick down and detonate.
My father opens his mouth to speak. I hold my hand up and say, “Let me finish.”
He nods, all signs of his previous elation erased from his expression.
“I respect you immensely,” I tell him, sincerely. “You’re an incredibly savvy and skilled businessman. You’ve built a business that makes a lot of money and helps others make money. You improve communities. And you love Mom and us. You’re a good man.”
His face softens slightly, but he’s still pulling shrapnel from my blast.
“But?” he asks.
“But I don’t believe you should have plowed that land.
This community doesn’t need a Home Mart.
I’m actually concerned that you may have started something that will bring long-term detriment to Waterford.
I know you mean well. When you look at the development, you see progress, jobs, income, a way to sustain the infrastructure.
And I’m not arguing those benefits. When I look at that property—brown and demolished where it had been green and open, I see the loss of what makes us special—simplicity, local-owned, a sanctuary from everything commercial and generic. ”
My throat constricts and my stomach sours when I say the next sentence. “Daisy had to give up her business.” Her reality slams into me. “She lost everything.”
“This is about Daisy?”
“Only in part.”
“You always did have a soft spot where she was concerned.”
I nearly blurt that I’m madly in love with her—so in love that I’m sitting here, throwing away the only praise I remember ever receiving from my father for her.
But I don’t want my dad to be the first person to hear about my feelings for Daisy.
She deserves to hear my declaration, if I ever have the opportunity.
“I’m not saying a Home Mart won’t bring opportunities and jobs. I just think you could have placed it further outside town. And I definitely do not agree with overtaking Daisy’s property with your plans for condos.”
“Another location would have been impractical and inconvenient.”
“I’m not here to change your mind.” He’s used to changing mine—not this time.
“Why are you here, Patrick?”
“I needed you to know I’m not going to be a part of this project.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be an active part of O’Connell Development.
I love being a firefighter. It’s not a hobby.
It’s my career. And I love reading and books.
I’m not going to change who I am to fit your mold of what you wish I were. ”
I didn’t plan on saying all that, but now that I’m on a roll, it seems I’m lobbing every grenade in the arsenal. My stockpile.
The urge to apologize bubbles up—an old habit.
I won’t take back or excuse one thing I said.
I didn’t insult my dad. I let him know where I stand.
We sit across the desk from one another—two men in their bunkers.
My hands tremble—adrenaline? I steady them on my knees.
“I need time to digest all of this, Patrick.”
“Take all the time you need. I have another project I’ll be working on. It’s going to take a lot of my time and effort.”
He nods. Doesn’t ask me anything about the project. I didn’t expect him to.
“I love you, Dad. This isn’t personal.”
He glances out the floor-to-ceiling French windows, finger tapping the desk once.
“It’s business,” he says, his tone neutral, controlled.
“And I love you too. I misjudged the situation—misjudged you. Maybe I wanted to see what I wanted to see—a son who was eager, or at least willing, to step into my shoes. I thought you finally wanted to take a part in the family business. We don’t share much. I thought we could share this.”
“I know. And I understand.”
I could say a lot more, but I don’t. By definition, sharing something means that both people have an interest in it.
We might never find common ground, and if that’s the case, I’ll grieve our lack of connection for the rest of my life.
My father doesn’t enjoy recreational reading or spending time in nature.
I don’t comprehend his need to build and develop on every square inch of open property he finds.
Maybe one day we’ll discover something to bond over. Today is not that day.
After a moment, I stand and excuse myself. In the hall, I release the breath I didn’t even know I had been holding. I pop my head into the home gym to tell Mom I’m taking a raincheck on the protein smoothie.
I’ve got work to do—rebuilding what my family has torn down.
I start by visiting the hardware store—the one Daisy’s dad owns.
“Is Mister Clark here?” I ask Gabriel, the guy working the counter.
“Let me get him,” Josh walks to the back and emerges with Daisy’s dad.
“Patrick? What can I do for you?” His smile is broad and kind—the smile of a man who sees his business as serving more than his livelihood.
I’m certain Daisy told her parents what went sideways the day we were supposed to do our presentation for the scholarship to Vanderbilt.
They’ve never treated me differently, though her dad does have this nearly imperceptible guard up around me.
It’s not in his words, which are always welcoming and warm, but it’s this lingering reality that hangs between us: You hurt my daughter.
“I’m here about Daisy,” I say.
“Daisy? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. I think. I mean, she was fine the last time I saw her—as fine as someone can be when the rug has been torn out from under them.”
His eyes soften and he studies me, probably trying to figure my angle.
“I’m here because I want to help save the bookshop.”
He blinks once, surprise flickering behind his glasses.
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” His tone isn’t mean or accusing. It’s a point of fact.
“To save the actual building? I don’t think I can. But the shop itself? Moss and Maple? Absolutely. I’ve spent a lot of hours thinking about this. We all love that property. And Daisy still owns it. But it won’t be the same. We could send around a petition, gather resistance to Home Mart.”
I pause. Now that I finally have an audience with him, my words are flowing like a local river in spring. He’s quiet—probably stunned into shocked silence.